I’ve lived a long time as my own escort through the dark. Lately, I think I may have found a few people might who know how to walk beside me — not to save me, not to lead me — just to walk home with me.
I went underground a decade ago.
Not because I doubted what I knew, but because visibility became unsafe. When Bear threatened to have me committed for naming realities that fell outside consensus—aliens, expanded perception, existence beyond the narrow spectrum of physical sight—I made a choice. I stopped sharing publicly. I stopped teaching openly. I kept my knowing intact, but I took it offline.
I did that to protect my family. To protect my child. To avoid becoming a problem that needed to be managed.
I’ve been a private SOURCE-ress ever since.
“No more ambush, unrequested deliveries, or back door access – to me”
This title arrived fully formed this morning.
Not as a thought.
As a decree.
SoHA.
And so it is.
So mote it be.
May this sink even more deeply into my soul.
Mo BranAura SoHA.
I was in my warehouse last night.
This needs some explanation, because it’s not metaphorical.
The warehouse is my energetic home. It’s huge—vast—and bigger on the inside, Doctor Who phone-booth style. It has wings and sections and zones. It’s been an active safe space in my energetic life for a decade, probably longer. I don’t remember exactly when it came into my consciousness.
Until today, I’ve kept writing about it offline. Protected, Not shared. And the fact that I am publishing this now, tells you something about what a big deal this moment in time-space is for me.
The wind has shifted. A good sailor adjusts the sails.
And when the course is set, she raises the flag again.
I heard a knock on a door.
Not the matrix facing door.
Not any of the beach house patio doors.
One I hadn’t noticed before.
It was located in a maintenance area of the warehouse—near where a dumpster service door is. Functional. Peripheral. And yet… this door was new. Or maybe it had been there a long time, unnoticed.
I answered it.
It opened into a wooden stairwell.
That detail matters – Wood – hastily constructed. Unfinished.
The stairwell was dingy. Stairs going up and down, as if my warehouse now had a basement. (Of course it does—subconsciousness—but that’s in another wing of the architecture.) This stairwell looked like the kind you’d find in a cheap hotel or dorm building. But it was wood, not cement.
This structure was not solid.
Not well-built.
Not foundational.
There was a being standing there.
I can’t say “person.” I didn’t feel personhood.
It presented as male. Asian. Mid-30s maybe. A delivery man.
But it felt inorganic.
Like a 3D-printed copy of a human.
“He” offered me a pizza box.
I knew instantly not to accept it.
The whole thing felt like a video-game program—the offering, the delivery, the situation itself. I took the time to look around, past him and to the right, taking in the full stairwell.
It was cluttered. Along the hallway wall were multiple five-gallon buckets filled with something. I sensed oil. Tar. Petroleum. Diesel mixed with sludge.
Toxic storage.
The delivery man turned, as if to go somewhere else, and as he did, he planted the thought in me:
I should follow.
I was expected to step through the doorway—out of my warehouse, into this liminal space. To go… somewhere.
It had the lure of a rabbit-hole movie. Conspiracies. Adventure.
He was playing the role of an Asian ascended master, leading me into some hidden narrative.
I didn’t buy it.
I felt the atmosphere of the trap.
I can absolutely see how someone would follow—out of curiosity alone.
When it sensed I wasn’t taking the bait, it laid it on thicker.
You are the chosen one.
This would be an adventure where I was the hero. The star. A savior narrative.
I clocked it instantly.
This was a hero-savior trap.
The obvious lure was adventure—conspiracy, destiny, the promise of being chosen. A story where I would be the star and the hero.
But there was something else threaded through it.
A subtler pressure.
Not invitation, but provocation.
The pizza wasn’t nourishment.
It was bait.
It carried the suggestion that I should step forward.
Engage.
Respond.
That I should do something—follow, confront, correct, prove.
I didn’t take it.
I stayed inside my warehouse.
And I could feel that the entire mechanism hinged on one thing:
Consent.
Nothing happens unless I accept.
Unless I step through the door.
Unless I energize the structure with my attention.
It needed me to become the battery.
I stayed put.
Inside my warehouse.
At this point, I’ve got questions:
What the fuck is this structure doing connected to my warehouse?
I didn’t build this.
It is not in the authentic blueprints.
It was a shoddy in-between space. A back door. A liminal attachment.
It wanted to lure me into it so it could solidify through me—use my energy while I chased some half-assed distraction masquerading as destiny. A big story. Cheap construction. it was inorganic programming.
A dimension of shoddy distractions and rabbit-hole style adventure, built to siphon energy.
Then Boo enters the chat.
She came from inside the warehouse—the correct way.
She is me.
She has DNA keys to this place.
Like the warehouse, Boo has not made her public debut. Writing this is a deliberate return to visibility.
Boo is a dragon.
She was once small—the little brown one on the front left side of the image below. She radiates pure joy. Divine masculine and feminine in balance. Playful. Bright-eyed. When I first crafted this illustration way back in the day, she was small and adorably baby-fat.
Battle was game time.
Think nine-year-old boy energy, fueled by an unlimited supply of sugar.
Now she is grown.
She did not stand in the doorway at full size. She knows how to scale appropriately to the situation. And her power is unmistakable.
Her scales still shimmer with browns, greens, and gold – the energies of joy and fun – but her base color has now evolved to raven-feather black.
Not flat black. That impossible black that shimmers with purples, blues, reds. Like color-shifting taffeta. Like an 80s prom dress woven from galaxies.
This is her Divine Feminine yin essence fully online.
I stepped back into the warehouse.
She took my place in the doorway.
I popped my awareness into the delivery man to see through his eyes—now I was facing Boo.
She looked directly at “him”.
She took in everything:
The wooden stairs.
The buckets of goo.
The entire flimsy construct.
Her eyes held liquid compassion.
Not superiority.
Not contempt.
Not vengeance.
She measured the whole scene and found it wanting.
Then she unleashed her fire.
Not destruction.
Obliteration.
The structure burned away.
The being shaped like a delivery man and his Trojan pizza went with it.
The entire in-between space collapsed—no ash, no residue.
Transmuted back to Source.
Gone.
Kitty appeared at our side.
(Yes, I know it sounds schizoid to say “Kitty” in the third person—but Kitty is also the name of the facet of my higher self who manages the warehouse. She’s the operator. The admin. The one with the clipboard and the keys. And she’s a fucking hoot.)
She was already repairing the wall as if the door had never existed.
Muttering. Swearing. Complaining under her breath.
How the fuck did this door get here anyway…
I love her so much.
That knock on the door was a comment Bear made last night.
A false accusation.
The trigger.
My rage.
That was back-door access to me.
This is programming embedded in human consciousness. PTSD landmines installed deliberately—through trauma, culture, bad parenting, fear, and control. Damage left by imperfect parents. By partners whose wounds matched ours just long enough to gain access.
As I heal, he feels left behind.
And I can see that.
I don’t dismiss it.
I don’t weaponize it.
I don’t need to deny his pain to name the trap.
Last night, this structure—a non-human-generated program—tried to exploit an old access point. It failed. And in that failure was the gift: the exposure of both a vulnerability and one of the matrix’s operating methods.
This structure is not part of original human design. It relies on inherited trauma, implanted fear, and conditioned consent. Once seen clearly, it cannot masquerade as intuition, destiny, or concern again.
Exposed.
Measured.
Found wanting.
Burned away compassionately.
Not fought.
Not negotiated with.
Not re-entered.
Because compassion does not require access.
And empathy does not require consent.
This program, like all unconscious programs, derives its power from the shadow.
It has now been seen.
And is therefore finished.
No more ambush.
No more unrequested deliveries.
No more back-door access to me.
Mo BranAura SoHa.